


home (we're coming home now)

by alesford



Category: Wynonna Earp (TV)
Genre: Between Seasons 2 & 3, Domestic Fluff, F/F, Implied Sexual Content, Light Angst, probably not canon compliant
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-22
Updated: 2018-07-22
Packaged: 2019-06-14 09:18:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,238
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15385638
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alesford/pseuds/alesford
Summary: They say when you move into a new house, the change can be bittersweet. You’re leaving behind the place you’ve called your own for however many years. There are memories etched into the floors and written on the walls, part and parcel of every corner and nook that made this place yours. So many reminders of things good and bad.ORNicole is moving to the homestead, but first she needs to pack up her old house.





	home (we're coming home now)

**Author's Note:**

> An anon sent me the prompt: Waverly in Nicole’s Stetson and uniform shirt.
> 
> This probably isn't _exactly_ what they had in mind, but here you go. This doesn't fit into any of my existing universes, so it's a stand-alone fic. I envision it taking place between seasons two and three, just a brief Wayhaught moment before shit hits the fan.
> 
> Also. WYNONNA EARP IS RENEWED FOR SEASON FOUR.
> 
> That is all. Please enjoy the fic.
> 
> Any and all mistakes are my own.

 

 _the sound of the wind is whispering in your ear_  
_can you feel it coming back?_  
_through the warmth, through the cold, keep running 'til we're there_  
_we're coming home now, we're coming home now_  
_\- 'home' by dotan_

 

They say when you move into a new house, the change can be bittersweet. You’re leaving behind the place you’ve called your own for however many years. There are memories etched into the floors and written on the walls, part and parcel of every corner and nook that made this place yours. So many reminders of things good and bad.

 

Like the space in front of the window of her guest bedroom where Calamity Jane liked to chatter at squirrels scampering across the roof.  Or the light scuff marks on the footboard near the front door where her boots inevitably fell against the wall when she kicked them off as soon as she got home from work. Maybe the soapstone countertop in the kitchen where she stood between Waverly’s legs and made her come while their vegetarian lasagna scorched in the oven. Like the bedroom upstairs where Waverly undid her later that night, pulling her apart with shallow breaths and fervent grabs and curling fingers.

 

Or maybe where that old rug with the diamond design and light, earthen tones used to be beneath a coffee table that’s long since been broken — before it ended up blood-soaked and tainted by horrifying flashbacks of sharp teeth and venom and fighting with the woman she loves more than anything or anybody else in the world.

 

That’s one of the less happy memories.

 

Obviously.

 

She pushes away the memory of Waverly's fear and the feeling of burning from the inside out. She secrets it away into a locked box deep within her mind until she doesn't have to think of it anymore. Just as deftly, she maneuvers the flaps of the cardboard box labeled ‘KITCHEN’ in Waverly’s neat, scrolling handwriting until they’re interlaced and staying closed.

 

Waverly’s voice calls out from somewhere upstairs. “Nicole?”

 

“Coming!” she answers, lifting the box and carrying it to the growing collection in the living room.

 

The house is mostly packed up at this point. Her bedroom closet and some of the drawers of her dresser still need to be emptied, which has been Waverly’s task this morning. Most of her things have already been moved to the homestead by now. Slowly but surely, half of Waverly’s armoire became Nicole’s and more than one drawer was designated as her own. One pair of jeans and a button-up shirt at a time.

 

Her worn Converse high tops are quiet on the stairs. The carpet runner muffles her steps as she takes them two at a time. _“What’s up, babe?”_ is ready on her lips, but the words never sound when she comes to an abrupt stop in the doorway, the oxygen knocked from her lungs.

 

Waverly’s in front of her full-length mirror, unaware of Nicole’s presence as she turns from side to side to take in her reflection.

 

She’s wearing the old Purgatory Sheriff’s Department uniform. The dark navy shirt with the red and light blue accents. The silver buttons on the epaulets and chest pockets. The stetson.

 

The _stetson_.

 

The shirt hangs down past her thighs, covering the short denim shorts that Nicole knows she’s wearing—

(but kind of hopes she isn’t)

— and she’s rolled the sleeves past her elbows in loose cuffs.

 

Not to mention that the shirt Nicole knows she _was_ wearing has been discarded onto the mattress stripped bare of sheets and blankets.

 

Her mouth is suddenly dry and she can feel her cheeks flush pink and warm. “Wow,” is all she can manage to say.

 

Waverly whirls around, eyes wide with an abashed look on her face. “Nicole! I was just— I finished packing everything else but this was still in your closet and—”

 

Nicole crosses the room in four long strides. “Babe. You look…” Her eyes rake over Waverly in her uniform shirt and she knows it’s salacious and leering but goddamn is her girlfriend sexy. Especially with only enough of the buttons done to keep the shirt closed across her abdomen (i.e. three button or few enough that Nicole can see the lacy nude bra that Waverly put on this morning). “You look _hot_.”

 

The corners of Waverly’s eyes crinkle and she laughs softly. The laugh that gives away the self-consciousness that still shakes her more often than Nicole would like.

 

“Hey, hey,” Nicole whispers, resting her hands on Waverly’s hips. “You are absolutely hot.”

 

Her touch draws a smile and there’s her brave love. “ _Haught_ , even?” she says with a twinkle in her eye.

 

“And here I thought I only had to endure puns from your sister.”

 

“Do you think maybe we could… not talk about Wynonna, right now? Who knows if saying her name three times will make her magically appear?”

 

Nicole chuckles. “Wynonnus Interruptus, indeed.”

 

“Mm,” Waverly hums. “No more talking.”

 

She captures Nicole’s lips before the cocky _“Why don’t you make me?”_ can spill from them. She swallows the words and teases out a moan instead.

 

Fingers ghost over skin, tug at buttons and shirts, and elicit goosebumps and gasps. The stetson ends up on the floor. Along with the uniform shirt. And the rest of their clothing.

 

Add one more good memory (well, more like three) to the list.

 

By the time they’re sweaty and sated, the sun is far into its descent across the sky and they’re due back at the homestead if they want any chance at the Vietnamese that Dolls is supposed to bring over for dinner. Fingers tug at buttons and shirts and jeans and shorts, pulling them on instead of taking them off. Touches linger longer than necessary but just as long as needed to write love on each other’s bodies in a different sort of way.

 

Nicole is sure to fold her old uniform shirt and tuck it and her old stetson carefully into the box that’s still open. She closes it, folding the flaps shut and lifts it into her arms.

 

“Ready?” she asks, watching Waverly run her fingers through her hair as if she could lessen the mussed, after sex look. It brings a smile to Nicole’s face.

 

“Good to go.”

 

She carries the box down the stairs and drops it off next to the others. Waverly snakes an arm around her waist, leaning heavily into her side.

 

“Are you going to miss it?”

 

Nicole shakes her head, finding Waverly’s hand with her own and entangling their fingers.

 

“I don’t think so,” she says.

 

Because when she closes the door to her house, furniture covered in sheets and boxes stacked alongside storage containers just waiting for Dolls and Wynonna to bring the truck around tomorrow morning, it isn’t bittersweet. It doesn’t feel like leaving behind everything that makes her _her_ for something new and different. It doesn’t feel like loss at all.

 

Because tomorrow morning, when she locks the door behind her for one final time, it isn’t about leaving her home.

 

It’s about coming home.

 

Because home is where Waverly is, where her heart beats strong and fast. Where she feels alive and loved. Oh so loved.

 

Home is where the heart is.

 

It’s a cheesy line, she knows. Probably entirely too trite but so very accurate in this moment.

 

Home is Waverly.

 

_Where you go, I go._

 

 


End file.
